


The grief of a nation

by Televa



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Self-Hatred, emotional breakdown, mentions of self-hurting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-24
Updated: 2013-08-24
Packaged: 2017-12-24 13:24:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/940490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Televa/pseuds/Televa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"When I raise my gaze upon a night sky, I don’t know from who or what I seek protection. If there’s a God, or gods, or even Hell itself, no one is answering me. I scream and scream and scream, but every time I’m left alone with the ringing in my ears."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The grief of a nation

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own England or France, nor do I get any profit from this. Englinsh my second languge and this is unbetad, so there might be typos. I checked it few times, but it'll never know.
> 
> Here's a little introduction about what happened before the text: France found England's diary and read it secretly, before finding the chapter that's in the text.

_26 th of October, 20XX_

_During days like this I tend to question everything I do – it doesn’t matter if it’s my way of walking or my cooking skills, I find only fails of my actions. It feels like I’m not worth of living, despite the bloody fact that I’m a nation. That I have people who are my citizens - and have their fates in me._

_Earlier today I discovered how every song I listen to deepen my self-loathing and self-pity. Happy songs remind me of the ‘good old days’ when even I had fun and felt pure happiness. Sad and longing songs instead encourage me to shatter into pieces. It doesn’t matter what I choose, for I cannot win. Not anymore._

_I know no longer when I’m “safe” or “in danger”. I feel awkward and confused in the company of the one I’ve known for many, many years, but then I’m ready to give my life into the hands of the ones I barely know. The only one I can fully trust is France, and it’s like I’m slowly drifting away from in. To be honest, I wonder how he still hasn’t left me and began to live fully again. How such a person can be living with a mentally crippled person like me?_

_After everything I’ve been told, I’m afraid of telling my thoughts and feelings aloud. For my whole life (can one really describe it as a life?) my coworkers and boss has told me not to complain. How funny, one isn’t supposed to complain even if a leg was chopped off. I’m afraid of crying, because it shows emotions, and showing any emotions is always bad._

_When I raise my gaze upon a night sky, I don’t know from who or what I seek protection. If there’s a God, or gods, or even Hell itself, no one is answering me. I scream and scream and scream, but every time I’m left alone with the ringing in my ears. During those times when France isn’t here are the worst. A fortnight ago, when he was visiting Canada, I began to hurt myself again. It’s been a good century since the last time, so finding myself in the same situation once again was bizarre. Call me a coward, but cutting hurts too much. Therefore I bit my arms over and over again, until it was covered with red bruises. The day after my arm was perfectly swollen and the bruises had begun to turn to red blue. When France came home he asked what’d happened to my hand, and I lied that I had hit it against the radiator in my sleep. He accepted my lie._

_I’m lost, completely lost. And no one else can see it._

France let the diary fell to the white carpet before burying his face into his hands. Perhaps reading England’s diary hadn’t been the brightest idea, but surely it had shed light on how things really were. England’s protective actions, willingness to use long-sleeved shirts… it all made sense now. He cursed himself for being such a fool, for not seeing the whole situation.

Wiping tears away with his sleeve, France left the bedroom and went to kitchen.  England was there pondering in front of a closet what tea to take, so he didn’t hear the other nation entering. For a short time France just studied the man, wondering what had pushed him so deep into the sea of sorrow that he had begun to hurt himself.

Shooing the questions away France walked behind England and folded his right arm around England’s body and with the left he raised his sleeve up.

“Fran-,“ England tried to protest and squirm away from France’s grasp, but then he felt how the grip hardened. He was ashamed.

“Angleterre, I know how t’ese ended up here, so don’t try to lie to me again. And no, don’t say anyt’ing yet. Let me finis’ first, okay? I don’t know w’at ‘as ‘appened, but you’re not mentally crippled. You’re a sweet and loving person, you just don’t let it s’ow often enoug’. For me, you perfect just t’e way you are. Don’t let _anyone_ tell you different, because t’en t’ey are lying.”

As England looked up on France’s face, he found the other man crying, which happened only on very, very rare occasions. He tensed, but then relaxed again and collapsed against France’s chest. He was sad and ashamed that France had found out. How he had done it, it didn’t matter. What mattered was that his darkest secret was revealed.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered sobbing and clung harder to France, who by now had raised his hand to soothe England’s blonde locks. For the first time in weeks England felt like he was truly safe and in a place where belonged.

“Don’t be, _mon cher_. Just remember t’at I am ‘ere and you’re never alone. I’d give my everyt’ing for you, if you only asked.” The answer only made them both cry louder and clung to each other harder; where France tried to tell England how loved and important the other nation was, England tried to tell how truly sorry and afraid he was.  

Knowing that they both were exhausted and that they couldn’t spend the rest of the evening standing there, France lifted England and carried him to the bedroom. Without bothering to change into pajamas, they fell on the bed and intertwined back together. England inhaled deeply and France’s familiar perfume filled his nostrils. It was cozy, being there surrounded by the nation of l’amour.  

For many long minutes neither of them said anything. They both thought how things had ended up here, if every condition before had boosted them into this point. When England felt how France begun to stroke his hair softly once again, a long-needed feeling filled him from toes to the top of head. He knew how bad his lack of sleep was, so he greeted the feeling like a brother who had been long lost and then found.

France muttering “You are perfect and I love you. I love you with all of my heart” was the last memory England had before drifting into the first proper sleep in ages.

**Author's Note:**

> // This text was used a therapy for myself, so in case you didn't like it, I don't care. The chapter of England's diary is basically from my own notes (except the France parts), which lead to the creating of this fanfiction. Writing down my pain helped and made it easier to bear. The only difference is that I don't have France here to soothe me, but I'll find another way to it. Btw, this is my first Fruk story :D


End file.
